The Northern camp was a study in paradox. While the outer walls of the camp were a frenzy of survival, the center of the settlement held a heavy stillness. It had been several days since Lady Sira and Yajin had led the massive column of wagons toward the southern trade routes. The absence of the elite Ashfang vanguard — those thousand red-skinned, orc-blooded giants — had left the camp feeling hollowed out, as if its very backbone had been removed.
Inside his personal tent, Velas sat ensconced in layers of thick, luxurious Frost-Bear furs. Despite the biting cold that seeped through the canvas, he was sipping a glass of chilled midnight flower juice, the ice cubes clinking softly against his horn mug that was a gift from the previous king, Alexis Antis. Velas looked at his reflection in the polished silver tray on his desk. It was a sight that still unsettled him. He looked barely twenty. His skin was smooth, his jawline sharp, and his eyes held a brilliant clarity. He was simply young again — maybe it was because Antares had saved his clan by awakening their mana hearts and that stress was off his shoulders, or maybe it was something else; he did not know. His mana was so dense that it was subconsciously making him young again, refusing to let the vessel of such power wither.
But in his mind, Velas felt like a crumbling ruin.
"Reports, reports, and more cursed reports," he muttered, tossing a parchment onto the pile. "Foragers were fighting over stupid foraging routes. Weapons, tools and armor need maintenance. The Arcanis mage apprentices are complaining that they are using too much time meditating instead of getting field experience. Does anyone in this camp have anything besides complaints?"
He leaned back, his youthful fingers drumming against the mahogany armrest. He was bored. Profoundly, dangerously bored. Managing the camp in Antares's absence was a duty he took seriously, but it lacked the spark of arcane discovery. And worse, he was lonely. He couldn't seek out Kael's company because the blacksmith had essentially entombed himself in his workshop. Since the boys had gone missing, Kael had become a ghost, visible only by the orange glow of his forge seen through the cracks in the door and the relentless, rhythmic thud of his hammer.
Velas's mind drifted to Yajin. The memory of their last conversation before the General marched south was a thorn in his side. Yajin had revealed, with that insufferable, stoic smirk, that he had finally broken through another realm in his knight force. Beginner Great Knight. In the hierarchy of power, that put Yajin in a realm of physical divinity. Velas, meanwhile, remained a Peak Mage. He was at the very ceiling of his rank, his mana capacity maxed out at the limit of Peak Rank, yet the door to the Awakened Mage rank remained locked.
"A meat-head like him reaches the Great Knight realm, and here I am, dealing with whiny children," Velas grumbled, taking a long pull of his juice. "Life is unfair."
Driven by a restless energy, Velas stepped out of his tent. The afternoon sun was a pale, heatless disc hanging over the jagged peaks of the Godwall. The camp was busy; the air smelled of wood smoke and the metallic sound of sharpening weapons.
He walked toward the ramparts, his youthful gait drawing the eyes of several younger antwomen who had accompanied their partners, though he ignored them. It reminded him of his wives and his children, but he knew he was making a sacrifice for their safety and it was worth it to him.
He was halfway to the North Gate when a scout — a winged antman — descended from the sky with such haste he nearly crashed into a weapon rack.
"Lord Velas! Lord Velas!" the scout shrieked, his antennae twitching in a frantic, erratic pattern. "Sightings! From the northwest! Terror Fowls! A whole flock of them, diving toward the valley!"
Velas didn't panic. He adjusted his silk robes, his expression one of mild annoyance. "Terror Fowls? They're scavengers, lad. Annoying, yes, but hardly a crisis. Send a squad of archers to the watchtowers and have an Arcanis mage prep a few fire-bolts if they are too much for the archers. We'll turn them into dinner."
"No, Sire! You don't understand!" the scout gasped, pointing a trembling finger toward the distant treeline of the Stagfall Forest. "They aren't attacking us! They're… They're fleeing!"
Velas's boredom evaporated instantly, replaced by a cold, sharp alertness. When top-tier scavengers like Terror Fowls fled, it meant something higher on the food chain was moving. He reached out his hand. From fifty paces away, inside his tent, his staff — the Blue Star Scepter — shot through the air like a guided missile, landing firmly in his grip.
With an effortless flick of his wrist, Velas cast a basic levitation spell and drifted up to the highest point of the wooden walls. He stood on the narrow walkway, the wind whipping his long, pearlescent hair around his face. He closed his eyes and whispered a sequence of arcane formulas. His Mana Sensory expanded. His mind's eye stretched across the snowy plains, past the first line of pine trees, and into the heart of the Stagfall.
What he saw made his heart skip a beat.
It wasn't a flock. It was a tide.
Hundreds upon hundreds of low-slung, powerful signatures were moving with a predatory, military-grade coordination. They were Terror Wolves. These were the nightmares from the northern wastes. Each one was the size of a small pony, with colors varying from black and white. But it was their eyes that defined them — a single, massive yellow orb in the center of their forehead, glowing with a cruel, telepathic intelligence.
Velas watched as they moved. They weren't just running; they were circling. They had waited. They had calculated the exact moment Yajin and the elites were out of range. They knew the camp's strength was halved.
"The intelligence of these brutes is evolving," Velas whispered, a bead of cold sweat running down his temple. "They've definitely timed this."
The wolves were coming from the Stagfall Forest at a full, lung-bursting gallop, their single eyes fixed on the camp like a thousand yellow spotlights.
"They're coming," Velas said, his voice dropping an octave. "My Lord?" the soldier beside him asked, trembling.
"RING THE BELL!" Velas roared, the sound amplified by a wind-burst that nearly knocked the soldier off the wall. "RING THE FUCKING BELL! WE ARE UNDER ATTACK! ALL HANDS TO THE GATES!"
The iron bell of the North Camp began to toll — a heavy, clanging sound that signaled total war.
The transition in the camp was instantaneous. The "peace" of the afternoon shattered into a thousand jagged pieces. Foragers dropped their baskets, spilling rare herbs, fruits, and meat into the snow. Resting soldiers burst out of their tents, grabbing swords, spears, and shields. The rest of the non-combatants were taken inside the giant ant tower that was as well the entrance leading to the underground settlement.
The commotion was so violent, so jarring, that it reached the deepest corners of the camp.
The rhythmic thud of the hammer stopped. Ten seconds of silence followed. Then, the heavy wooden doors of the workshop didn't just open — they were kicked off their hinges with a force that sent splinters flying thirty feet.
Out stepped a figure that most of the younger generation had only heard of in stories.
It was Kael, but he was no longer the mourning father. He was a mountain of obsidian and malice. He wore his ancient Obsidian-Plate Armor, a suit of black, light-absorbing metal that was forged during the Great Goblin Wars. The chest piece was thick enough to deflect ballista bolts and arrows, and his helmet featured the jagged, terrifying antlers of a Great-Stag, making him look like a dark god of the forest.
In his right hand, he carried his war-hammer Earth-breaker.
Velas, who had flown down to the gate to oversee the defensive line, watched as the armored giant approached.
"I didn't think I'd see that suit again in this life." Velas said, his voice soft but filled with a deep, nostalgic respect. "You look like you've stepped out ready for war again."
Kael didn't look at him. His eyes, visible through the narrow slit of his iron visor, were fixed on the gates.
"Don't get used to it, Velas," he grunted, the sound echoing metallically inside the helmet. "I'm only putting this on because our people are in danger. Once the threat is gone, the armor goes back into the vault. I am a smith now… and mostly a father."
"A smith who happens to be carrying a hammer that can crush heads and bones alike," Velas remarked, a small, wry grin appearing on his youthful face. "Regardless, I'm glad you're here. We're facing a pack of hundreds of Terror Wolves. They've timed the attack for Yajin's absence."
Kael's grip tightened on the handle of Earth-Breaker. "They think we are weak because the young ones are away. They've forgotten who the true masters of these lands are."
He turned to the line of soldiers. The Ashfang warriors who remained — mostly the older veterans and the youngest recruits — straightened their backs as the Blacksmith-General stood before them.
"Kael," Velas said, his tone turning serious. "Does Myriah know you're going to do this? Because if we survive the wolves and she finds out you went into the thick of it without her permission, I'm not the one who's going to save you."
Kael let out a long, weary sigh. "Don't let Myriah find out. Please. I'd rather face a thousand wolves than her when she's been 'worrying.'"
"Can't make any promises," Velas said, his sapphire staff beginning to glow with a fierce, swirling emerald light.
The scene at the gates was one of grim, focused preparation. The remaining Ashfang warriors formed a shield wall, their thick round shields interlocking. Behind them, the Arcanis mages stood on the elevated platforms, their hands glowing as they began the long, complex chants for fire-bolts.
Velas hovered a few feet above the ground, his Battle-Mage robes — a striking combination of green and white — flapping in the wind he was subconsciously generating. He had tied his hair back into a man-bun, his face set in a mask of cold focus on the battle coming.
In front of the gates, Kael stood alone. He was the vanguard. He planted his feet, the weight of his obsidian armor sinking his boots an inch into the permafrost. The snow cloud in the distance was no longer a cloud; it was a visible wave of black and white fur and glowing yellow eyes. The sound was deafening now — the rhythmic thud of thousands of paws and the low, guttural snarls of creatures that hadn't eaten in weeks.
"Here they come," Velas called out, his voice cutting through the whistling wind. He slammed the butt of his staff into the air, and a wall of compressed wind expanded outward. The pressure was so immense that it didn't just push the wolves; it shattered their internal organs, slamming a dozen of them back into their own pack like ragdolls.
When a group of three wolves tried to flank the gate, Velas didn't waste mana on a complex incantation. He used a telekinetic "slap" — a raw surge of invisible force that hit the leading wolf across the jaw with enough power to send it spiraling through the air like a discarded toy.
"That one's for you, Kael!" Velas yelled with a smirk.
Kael didn't even look up. He tracked the airborne beast by the whistle of the wind. As the wolf fell, Kael leaped. It shouldn't have been possible for a man in heavy plate armor to jump that high, but his Knight Force propelled him like a cannonball. He brought the hammer down in a vertical smash, pinning the wolf to the ground. The impact cracked the earth beneath them, sending a spiderweb of fractures through the frozen ground.
The battle raged into a blur of grey snow and red blood. The antmen were taking hits; several warriors had been dragged down by the sheer numbers of the pack, their armor cracked by the wolves' powerful jaws. The smell was overwhelming — a metallic, musky stench that filled the lungs.
Velas began to weave more complex spells as the numbers grew. He gestured with his free hand, and the snow on the ground began to swirl, turning into razor-sharp shards of ice that whipped around the defenders like a protective barrier. Wolves that leaped into the vortex were shredded before they could touch a single antman.
"Velas! Make flames!" Kael shouted, ducking under a lunge.
"Who are you talking to like that!" Velas pointed his staff at a cluster of twenty wolves. A localized burst of fire erupted, turning the snow into steam and the wolves into charred husks. "Next time ask nicely," Velas said to Kael, who did not spare him a glance and continued his charge.
He was in his element, his regained vitality allowing him to channel mana at a rate that would have withered a lesser sorcerer.
Kael, however, was the heart of the melee. He was a mobile fortress. He used the "beak" side of his hammer to hook a wolf by the leg, swinging the three-hundred-pound animal into its companions to break their charge. He was a demon of efficiency, every movement calculated to maximize the carnage. The gold bands on his hammer were now stained crimson, and his antlered helmet was splattered with ichor.
"There you are," Kael muttered, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous growl. He had just delivered a killing blow to a wolf that had tried to sneak behind him, using the rear beak of his hammer to spike the creature through its single eye. He let the carcass slide off the metal point and looked past the immediate chaos of the melee.
In the distance, standing atop a jagged outcropping of rock that overlooked the carnage, sat the Alpha. It was thrice the size of the others, a titan among its kin. Its fur was a grotesque patchwork of snow-white and blood-red, as if it had been dipped in the remains of its victims. But the most horrifying feature was its face. It didn't have one eye. It had three — three massive, glowing yellow orbs that moved independently, tracking every movement on the battlefield with a chilling, hyperintelligent focus.
The Alpha didn't howl; it let out a low-frequency rumble that vibrated in the chests of every warrior on the field. The three eyes began to glow with a blinding intensity, focusing on Kael. It recognized the threat. It recognized the one soul on this field that could match its ferocity and had crushed many of its kin.
Kael locked eyes with the three-eyed beast. He felt the Alpha's mana — a cold, oily pressure that tried to seep into his mind, whispering of fear and defeat. He tightened his grip on the leather wrap of his hammer, the gold bands on the shaft glowing in response to his rising aura. His Knight Force flared, vapor beginning to rise from the joints of his obsidian armor.
"Velas! The gates are yours! Don't let a single one through!" Kael shouted over his shoulder, his voice echoing with the weight of a death sentence.
"Going somewhere, Kael?" Velas asked, casually incinerating a wolf with a flick of his wrist, his eyes never leaving the sky.
"Hopefully, I'm going to end this nightmare," Kael replied.
Without another word, Kael broke into a dead sprint. He didn't dodge the wolves in his path; he ran through them. He used his hammer like a plow, swinging it in wide, horizontal arcs that cleared a path of broken bodies and shattered bone. He was a black streak across the white landscape, a juggernaut of obsidian and gold, heading straight for the rock where the three-eyed King of the pack waited. But first he had to kill the wolves that would come in his way.